


the kaleidoscope claims another

by sincereleo



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, I promise, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark-centric, mlm author, steve rogers is an idiot, this is real sad for a while but there's a happy ending, we're all crying in the club tonight boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2020-09-28 19:24:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20431181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sincereleo/pseuds/sincereleo
Summary: In a world where your soulmate's favorite color appears on your skin when they are injured, Tony Stark is born with grey-- the color that appears when your soulmate is incapacitated or dead-- across his body.Soulmate AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title from "life in color" by onerepublic.
> 
> just a little something I've poured my heart and soul into for the past few weeks. there's only going to be two parts; i should have part two up very soon!! also i'm still working on switch-fic, never fear!! i thrive on validation, tell me it's good otherwise i'll cry

Tony Stark is born streaked with grey—a thin line across his bottom lip, a thick swath down his lower abdomen, and swirling down the entirety of his left arm. The delivery room is still, silent as the grave, a cold and chilling benediction.

Howard Stark speaks first, amid the first cries of his newborn son. “What the hell?”

“It’s not uncommon, Mr. Stark, plenty of children are born with soulmarks, if their mates are slightly older—”

“Why are they _ grey _.”

Howard knows the answer before he even asks. Grey only happens if the soulmate is incapacitated, unable to have a favorite color to spread across their mate.

“That could be any number of reasons as well. Perhaps the mate is incapacitated somehow, or—”

“Dead,” Howard says, and his voice is cold. “Marks that severe mean…”

“Severe injuries.” The doctor nods agreement, solemn and clinical. “It doesn’t mean anything yet. More than one soulmate is possible, you know that. Give him time.”

** **

* * *

The marks stay, and they stay grey. As Tony Stark grows, he grows to hate the color streaked across his body. It’s a cruel reminder of how desperately, irrevocably alone he is.

The friends—if he could even call them friends—at the private schools Howard sends him to have colors, real colors, bright across their bodies. It’s a game they all play, showing each other patches and ribbons of orange, of blue, of green, looking around for people that have corresponding bruises or cuts, skinned knees or black eyes. They laugh and cry and race to find each other before the wounds heal and the colors fade. 

After a year or so, Tony knows better than to look. The grey stays staunchly on him, never budging from his face, his stomach, his arm. He’s young, but he’s not stupid. There’s no one out there for him, anymore.

Maria pretends there’s nothing different about him, but Tony doesn’t miss the way her eyes avoid his left arm, how she can’t look at his face without a pitying look in her eye. As the years go on, she just… doesn’t look at him at all.

Howard is less kind.

Tony can’t really remember a time his father _ has _ been kind. It starts small; Howard brings Tony into his workshop to help with projects. Tony always ends up injured, usually by his father’s own negligence—passing him a panel of hot metal, having him hold an unstable chemical that bubbles up over his hands.

“What’s it like, knowing there’s no one out in the world with your color on their hands?” Howard asks, gruff and cruel, as Tony struggles to bandage his own blistered fingers. Tony’s eyes burn, but he keeps his head down and his shoulders still. He doesn’t want to give Howard the satisfaction of knowing that it’s the worst thing in the world, being this alone.

In the years that pass, when Howard’s belt flies sharp across Tony’s shoulders almost nightly, Tony closes his eyes and grits his teeth and wishes that there were someone, anyone, out there with Tony’s colors flowering across their back.

* * *

Rhodey’s the first person to be soft, gentle, with Tony. And for the first time, Tony has hope. He could love Rhodey, if he tries hard enough—he could replace the grey poisoning his body and his mind with Rhodey’s colors, with Rhodey’s love.

Rhodey hasn’t seen the grey—none of Tony’s classmates at college have. Tony is exceptionally careful—he wears long sleeves, a leather glove on his left hand, and applies makeup to his face to cover the small grey line on his lip. He spends all his free time with Rhodey, desperate to wake up one morning and find the grey gone, find Rhodey’s colors in its stead.

The car crash ruins everything.

Tony had barely spoken to Howard and Maria in three years, since he’d gone away to college. They were all better off that way. Their deaths wreck him in a way he didn’t realize was possible anymore, not after they neglected him, abused him, made him believe he was fully unlovable.

I mean, he is fully unlovable, but to hear that from his own father…

The day after the funeral, Tony’s drunk and hungover at the same time, hurling his guts out into a toilet while Rhodey rubs his back.

“Did you… did you see her,” he sobs out. 

“I know, Tony. I know, I’m sorry.”

Tony can’t get the sight of his mother’s still body in her casket out of his head. The coroner’s makeup hadn’t quite covered the bleak grey on her face, a mirror image of the bruises his father had sustained in the crash. The finality of it, the way it matched the grey on Tony’s own lips…

Tony gags again, then sits back on his heels and swipes the back of his right hand across his mouth.

Rhodey’s eyes widen. He grabs at Tony’s face and tilts it toward him. Tony’s reactions, slow and clouded from the alcohol, aren’t fast enough to stop him.

“Tony… what is this?”

The pads of his fingers brush across Tony’s bottom lip, and Tony flinches back.

“Fuck… Rhodey…”

“Tony, what _ is _ this?!”

“I don’... I w’s born with ‘em.” Tony can’t believe this is happening, not here, not like this, _ no, _he can’t lose Rhodey in this shitty dorm bathroom, not today—

“Them?” Rhodey’s voice is soft—no, _ fuck _—and worried. “Tony?”

Well, he can’t stop it now. Tony shuts his eyes and pulls off the glove on his left hand, baring the grey streaked across it. Rhodey sucks in a breath.

“Jesus, Tones…”

“Goes all the way to the shoulder,” Tony says, miserable, eyes still shut. “One on my stomach, too. I was born with ‘em… already grey. Already gone.”

“Fuck…”

Rhodey doesn’t leave. Rhodey wraps his arms around Tony’s shoulders and pulls him close, safe and warm and comforting. And Tony doesn’t understand, how does Rhodey not see, how does he not realize…

“I was born unlovable, Rhodes, don’t you _ get _ it, what are you—“

“Shh. Hush.” Rhodey’s voice is still soft, but commanding. “That’s not true. _ You _ don’t get it. You were born loved, Tony. You were born loved.”

* * *

“How did they die?”

Tony’s haze of pain and confusion and fear is so thick it takes him a while to register the question. He’s in a cave somewhere deep in Afghanistan, with some crude metal contraption sticking out of the middle of his chest, and it _ hurts _. It hurts and he’s scared and he wants Rhodey, he wants Pepper, he wants JARVIS, he wants home.

“Stark. Stay awake. Answer me. How did they die.”

“I… I don’t know. I was born like this.”

“No one else to take their place?”

“You always intrude on people’s personal lives on the first date?”

The man—Yinsen, his name is Yinsen—gives Tony a ghostly smile. “Hard questions keep you up and fighting.”

Tony doesn’t want to fight anymore. He’s fought his whole life, for acceptance, for love, for Rhodey’s colors, for Pepper’s… and yet his body stays staunchly grey. Rhodey has a soft pink that swirls across his skin, and Pepper a deep, pure purple, and Tony’s alone. Tony’s always alone.

“No. No one else.”

“Perhaps in time, Stark. Don’t give up. Keep fighting.”

* * *

It’s a warm morning in mid-August, 2011, and Tony stumbles into his bathroom, half-asleep, half-drunk from the night before. 

He surveys himself in the mirror, cataloguing his messy hair, red-rimmed eyes, blue-streaked lip, love-bitten neck—

Hold up.

Hold the _ fuck _ up.

“JARVIS.”

“Sir?”

“JARVIS, I’m having a stroke.”

“All bodily functions appear to be within normal parameters, sir.”

“JARVIS. My lip is _ blue _.”

“It does appear so, sir. May I offer my congratulations.” 

Tony can’t move, can’t think, can’t fucking _ breathe _ , because the little stripe on his lip is _ blue _ , and that means there’s someone out there, for _ him _ , and they’re alive, they’re alive they’re alive they’re _ alive… _

He leans closer to the mirror, drunken haziness gone, looking at the little mark with something akin to reverence. It’s a shade a bit deeper than sky-blue, bright and brilliant and fucking beautiful. Teary-eyed, Tony raises his hand to touch it—

The fingers of his left hand are still grey.

It’s like a block of ice drops into the pit of his stomach. 

He yanks up his shirt; the slash across his lower stomach is still grey as well.

“JARVIS.”

“More than one soulmate is not uncommon, sir.” If Tony didn’t know any better, he’d say JARVIS sounds apologetic. “Concentrate on the positive. You still have one color.”

JARVIS is right. One color is undeniably worlds better than none. Tony still can’t push away the sinking feeling in his chest.

The blue is gone from Tony’s lip by the next morning, leaving his face clear for the first time in his life. It’s bittersweet; it’s nice to know his soulmate, whoever they are, has healed so quickly, but the little splash of blue had been exhilarating.

But days later, Tony wakes up with blue streaked across his knuckles, almost blinding in its brightness. He spends the day locked in his lab, alone, glove off. He tries to work, but he spends more time just staring at his hands, a wide grin spread across his face.

* * *

Tony’s soulmate must either get in a lot of fights, or go through a hell of a lot of punching bags. There’s almost never a day where Tony doesn’t have blue splashed, haphazard, across his knuckles. They bite their nails, too; Tony often finds bits of blue on the skin at the edges of his fingers. It’s endearing, if not stressful. 

The grey on his stomach, on his arm, still haunts him. He doesn’t know what to do, how to cope with knowing he’s got more than one soulmate, and only one of them is… 

Only one of them is there.

And then he feels shitty, selfish. A few days ago he hadn’t had anything. Now he’s beating himself up, ungrateful, about the fact that he doesn’t have two. So he pushes it out of his mind, forces himself to ignore the grey, to not think about it any more than necessary.

With the blue here now, it’s a lot easier.

About a week after Blue, Tony burns himself in the lab. He yelps and scrambles for the sink, thrusting his hand under the cold spray, and hears Howard’s words rattle in his brain: “_ What’s it like, knowing there’s no one out in the world with your color on their hands? _”

Holy fucking shit.

Holy fucking _ shit _, that’s not true anymore.

* * *

Tony’s childhood hero, it turns out, is an asshole.

Steve Rogers is a huge fucking _ asshole _ , and while the rational part of his brain is telling him not to be surprised—he was friends with _ Howard _, after all—Tony can’t help but be a little put out.

Steve Rogers dresses like a geriatric Southern Baptist, he wears cheap leather gloves, and he’s the most pretentious person Tony’s ever met in his goddamn life.

And that’s saying something, since it’s a title previously held by Tony himself. 

Steve isn’t all bad, though; at least, not after Bruce Banner goes green and a fucking engine in their helicarrier explodes. Then, he suits up and helps Tony fix it and doesn’t argue once. That’s pretty nice of him. Tony’s used to Pepper, who can argue even when there’s a crazed Russian maniac swinging an electric whip at her head.

After the engine is fixed and the men Hawkeye had brought along are taken care of, Tony lands back on the deck with Steve, who is panting and wiping blood away from a cut on his left cheek. He looks way too pretty for a ninety-odd year old man, and doesn’t that revelation just ruin Tony’s day. 

“Hey,” Steve says as Tony approaches, still in the suit. “Sorry about the lever. You all right?”

“No worries, Capsicle,” Tony says, and goes to raise the helmet.

It doesn’t open.

“Pardon my intrusion, sir.” JARVIS’ voice sounds soft in Tony’s ear. “I’ve noticed a change in the color of your face, in the same spot where Captain Rogers has been injured. It might not be prudent for you to remove your helmet at this moment.”

What..? No. No no no no no _ god _ no.

“S’cuse me a second, will ya?” Tony says abruptly. He doesn’t miss the way his voice shakes, nor the concern that flashes across Steve’s face, but he turns quickly and heads back down into the depths of the helicarrier.

“Stark! Hey, Stark, you okay?”

As soon as he’s out of Steve’s sight, Tony runs.

He hasn’t been inside the room they gave him yet. It’s small and plain, just a bed and a dresser and a small attached bathroom. Tony stumbles to it, the suit falling away as he does so, and clutches at the edge of the sink like it’s a life preserver.

His left cheek is flowering bright blue.

“JARVIS,” Tony says, faintly. “JARVIS, tell me I’m hallucinating.”

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

“What do I… fuck. What do I do?”

JARVIS is quiet. Tony’s world is crumbling, falling apart like the helicarrier he’s standing on. He finally has a soulmate and it’s… it’s Captain America. If Howard could see this....

If Howard could see this, he’d say Tony wasn’t worthy of him.

And he’d be right.

“JARVIS, are my bags here?”

“Yes, sir, they were dropped off as soon as you arrived.”

Tony doesn’t have time to deal with this right now. Bruce is gone. Thor is gone. Coulson is… Coulson is…

He doesn’t have time to be dealing with this. So he pulls his makeup out of his bag and applies a heavy layer over every bit of exposed skin he can find. He’ll fall apart later; right now he just wants to stop Loki, stop this, keep his world safe. When he’s done the best job he can, blue hidden away as though it had never been there at all, he takes a deep breath and walks back out of the room.

They go to New York, and every time Tony sees Steve get hit his stomach churns and his blood boils. When Tony challenges Loki, it’s with a fury, a fervor Tony didn’t know he possessed. How _ dare _ he show up here, from another fucking planet, and try to take Tony’s whole world away from him?

And then the council fires a goddamn fucking nuke into _ Tony’s goddamn fucking city _, and Tony doesn’t even blink before he’s flying it into the wormhole. Hell no, not today.

“Stark, you know that’s a one-way trip!” Steve yells into the comms, but he doesn’t sound particularly torn-up about it. Tony doesn’t grace it with a response, just sends more power to his thrusters and tilts the damn thing up, heart racing in his ears.

“Sir, perhaps you should…” JARVIS trails off. For the first time ever, he sounds uncertain.

“No thanks, J.” 

It’s cold in space. Even through the suit, it’s the coldest Tony’s ever been. He releases the nuke, and watches it reduce the alien ship threatening his home to smithereens. And he grins, even as JARVIS’ voice fades from his ears, as his suit fails him, as his body shuts down.

Because right now, as he falls through space, he’s finally worthy of the color that claims him.

* * *

The group accepts Tony’s offer to move into the tower. Every single one of them, even Bruce, even _ Steve _, and Tony doesn’t really know what home is supposed to feel like but this… this might be it. They leave books and games spread out on the tables in his common areas, they abandon mugs of coffee on counters and in decorative plants (thanks, Clint), and they cook family dinners every other night.

_ Family _dinners.

Tony sits at the far end of the table and doesn’t talk much, but he doesn’t miss a single one.

Steve still wears his long sleeves and gloves, and Tony covers his knuckles with body paint when they flower blue. He hasn’t come up with a good way to inform Steve Rogers, Captain _ fucking _ America, that he’s Tony’s soulmate, and he’s not sure he ever will. After all, Steve had and lost a soulmate, back in 1945, and Tony doesn’t think he’ll take kindly to another one. 

At least, he won’t take kindly to Tony being the other one.

But it doesn’t stop Tony from casting longing glances at Steve’s gloved hands, every time he burns or nicks himself in the lab. Tony doesn’t even know what his color is.

At this point, he might not ever know.

He and Steve are getting along a little better, these days; there’s fewer fights and more laughter. Tony introduces Steve to new food and new music and new movies, and Steve returns in kind with stories about Aunt Peggy, about Howard before he was ruined. Tony thinks they might be friends. Or, he hopes they are. 

Friends would be something.

“Tony.”

Steve stops Tony in the hall early one morning, a soft hand on his elbow, and Tony sucks in a breath at the contact before turning to face him. “What’s up, Capsicle?”

“I need… I need to ask you a favor.”

Anything. Goddamn, anything, Tony thinks, staring at Steve’s soft blue eyes, framed with too-big lashes. I’d give you the world.

“A favor, huh? I don’t do anything kinky until at least the third date, Rogers, don’t hold your breath.”

Mm, the flush that spreads hot and fast over Steve’s cheeks is delicious.

“Shut up, Stark.” Steve heaves a deep breath. “Um… Peggy’s nursing home called me. She’s… not doing well. I was wondering… could you find me a hotel in D.C. I could stay in? Just for a few weeks. Until she gets better or… or we know what the next steps are.”

Steve looks crushed. But not as crushed as Tony feels. Of course, he’d want to be in D.C.; Peggy isn’t going to be around much longer, she’s the last link Steve has with his old life, she’s his soulmate, for crying out loud. But that doesn’t stop the pain bubbling up in his chest.

“Yeah, of course.” Tony’s voice sounds far away, hazy, in his own ears. He can’t meet Steve’s eyes anymore, choosing instead to fix his gaze on a point just above his left ear. “I’ll have JARVIS put some feelers out, we can have you set up by tomorrow afternoon.”

The relief that spreads across Steve’s face aches more than his request had. “Thank you, Tony,” he says, quiet and sincere. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

“Don’t worry about it. Happy to help.”

By noon the next day, Happy is helping Steve load his suitcases into a car. Tony has spared no expense—the hotel he’s found is the safest in the area, and they’ve assured him total secrecy about who their guest is. On pain of being sued by Tony’s formidable team of lawyers, of course. Tony watches from the doorway of the tower as Happy gets into the driver’s seat, saying something to Steve as he goes. Steve laughs—god, he’s fucking beautiful—and goes around to the passenger side. As he does, he looks up, sees Tony, and waves with a smile.

Tony can’t help himself. He beams back and waves. He might be imagining things, but he thinks Steve’s eyes might light up. 

* * *

Steve said a few weeks. Four months later, after spending three straight days in the lab with a full media lockdown, Tony goes upstairs and takes off his shirt to shower. He glances down and his world starts spinning—there are bright blue, circular wounds in his abdomen.

Bullet wounds.

He races to the mirror, hardly breathing, and his face is clouded with blue, almost obscuring the rest of his skin—fuck, fuck fuck no—

“JARVIS. JARVIS! Status on Rogers!”

“My apologizes, sir. It appears that Captain Rogers is not wearing his communicator.”

“_ What _? When did he take it off?!”

“My last readings are dated for yesterday morning.”

“And you didn’t tell me! J!”

“I wasn’t aware I was Captain Rogers’ babysitter.” JARVIS almost sounds annoyed. 

“And I wasn’t aware I have to do everything my fucking self…” Tony’s already dialing Steve’s number, holding the phone to his ear, practically bouncing off the bathroom walls. The phone rings… and rings… and rings… please please please…

“He said you’d call.”

Tony doesn’t recognize the voice. His blood runs cold.

“Who is this.”

The voice chuckles. “Relax, Stark. Name’s Sam Wilson, I’m a friend of Steve’s.”

“Uh-huh. And why exactly do you have his phone?”

“He’s kind of unconscious right now. It’s a long story.”

“What the _ fuck _ , how did you knock out a _ supersoldier _—”

“Calm down, he’s gonna be fine—” Tony hears a rustle, and a small groan, and that’s _ Steve, _ that’s _ Steve’s _ groan, and Tony slides down the wall to sit up against his shower, his legs shaky and his heart racing in his chest.

“Hang on, Stark.” There’s a clatter, as Sam Wilson sets down the phone, and Tony can hear him murmuring to Steve.

“G’me the phone, Sam.” 

God, Steve sounds terrible. Even still, Tony’s heart rate slows by half. He hears another rustle as the phone changes hands, and then he hears Steve take a deep breath.

“Hey, Tony.”

“You suck, Rogers.”

Steve tries to chuckle, but it comes out more like a tired gasp. “Sorry.”

“A few weeks. You said a few weeks. It’s been four months. And now you sound like you got run over by a helicarrier.”

“Well… more like I got one dropped on me.”

“Shut up. What the hell happened?”

“I got a fucking helicarrier dropped on me, Tony.”

“Wait. What the _ fuck _?”

Steve chuckles, tense but a little fond. “You spend too much time in the lab, I’m all over the news. Look, they’re releasing me tomorrow. I’m coming home.”

“You… you are?”

Tony didn’t think he could get any dizzier, but the prospect of having Steve back in the tower, back _ home _, is so overwhelming he can barely breathe.

“Yeah. Hey, uh, Tony?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m bringing a friend.”

* * *

“You brought a fucking assassin to my tower. Rogers, this is low, even for you.”

“Tony.”

“I know, I know. Don’t expect me to do cartwheels.”

“Do we have to keep him in there?”

“JARVIS.”

“Sergeant Barnes is perfectly comfortable, Captain Rogers.”

“I know, I just… it looks like a cell.”

“It is a cell, Steve, just built for the Hulk. I’m sorry, I’m not about to put him up in his own floor until I can trust him not to go Terminator on my staff.”

The Winter Soldier _ looks _ innocent enough, right now. He’s sitting in the corner of the large, triple-reinforced room Tony designed in case Bruce ever lost control; his arms, one flesh, one metal, curled around his knees, his face hidden. Tony knows better, though, knows this might be the most dangerous person he’s ever met.

They’d brought the Soldier in unconscious, Steve and his new friend Sam Wilson. Otherwise known as Tony’s new favorite person. Steve had explained, hoarse and teary, that the famed Winter Soldier was actually his childhood friend James Barnes. That he didn’t remember who he was, that he wasn’t responsible for anything he had done as HYDRA’s pet assassin. 

“And, Tony,” Steve had said, hoarse and exhausted and… _ scared _? “There’s something else.”

“Oh?”

“I… We’re not sure, but we think he killed your parents.” 

That had been two nights ago. Tony still isn’t sure how he feels. He’s honestly not sure how he _ should _feel. Howard and Maria had been his parents, true, but what they had done to him…

“You gotta let me go in, Tony. I gotta talk to him, he hasn’t had human contact since we threw him in there, he’s gotta be terrified—”

“He _ shot _ you, multiple times, and then threw your foolhardy ass into the Potomac! Forgive me for trying to protect you!”

“Tony.” Steve’s jaw is set, his eyes are bright. His whole body tenses like he’s on the brink of a fight, and something in Tony’s soul curdles. “Bucky’s my soulmate.”

* * *

A few days after Barnes was allowed out of the containment room, Tony’s arm gained color.

It was slow at first, so slow Tony barely noticed it, the grey tinged with a bit of pale blue. And when he did notice it, he ignored it, because there was only one person that color could belong to, and that person was A) Steve Rogers’ soulmate, B) a brainwashed assassin who hadn’t even spoken to Tony before, and C) literally his parents’ murderer. Then, Tony woke up one morning and it was _ pink _, a vibrant, orangey-sunrise pink, bright and breathtaking. And when Tony went down for family dinner, tucked into a long-sleeved flannel and his leather gloves, Steve’s whole left hand was splashed with the pink as well. He had his arm around Barnes’ waist, and he was beaming. It was like a knife in Tony’s chest.

They had each other, finally, and there wouldn’t be any room for him to join the equation. There wasn’t even a point in him trying, not with Steve finally looking _ happy _, not with Barnes looking like he got another piece of his soul back every time Steve touched him.

They probably didn’t even have Tony’s colors. Maybe Steve had, before, but not now. Now he looks whole in a way he hadn’t before.

So, Tony had realized right there, he was going to have to avoid them completely to keep himself sane.

His arm and the slash on his stomach change color almost every day, sometimes multiple times a day. Green to pink to purple to yellow to blue and then back to green, all different shades, some bright, some muted, some pastel.

“It’s common in children,” JARVIS explains, when Tony asks. “Sergeant Barnes is experiencing the world with new eyes after his time with HYDRA.”

It’s sweet, Tony thinks, rubbing his fingers absently across his bright-yellow left hand. He just wishes he had a chance to get to know this new Bucky Barnes, without the inevitable heartbreak that would accompany it.

By now, Tony hasn’t seen Steve or Barnes in almost two months. Honestly, he hasn’t left the lab in almost two months. The few times he does, he almost inevitably runs into Barnes and Steve, holding hands or kissing or some other crap.

And it feels like falling out of space again, every damn time.

So Tony stays down in his lab, and avoids his soulmates, and hopes nobody comes down to bother him—

“Sir, Sergeant Barnes is requesting entry.”

What.

“_ What _ ?” Tony shoves back from his table and looks frantically at the blacked-out door. He’s got a greased-stained flannel hanging over his chair that he shrugs on quickly, and he snatches up his gloves. “What does he want?”

“He says he needs your help.”

What. The fuck. What the fuck what the fuck what the _ fuck _. Tony straps his gloves on and takes a steadying breath. He’ll be fine. This will be fine.

“Okay, J. Let him in.”

Barnes steps in slowly, his eyes tracking around the room. Tony hasn’t seen the guy up close in… well, ever, really. He hasn’t wanted to get that close, not after the colors. Barnes looks… good, long hair pulled messily back, a bit of stubble on his face. He had been way too thin when Steve had brought him home, but now he’s filled out some and has some color to his skin. He almost looks like a real person, if it weren’t for the metal arm he’s currently cradling to his chest.

The metal arm that has a chunk of wires and gears dangling out of it.

Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.

“Hey,” Barnes says, soft and a little gruff. “Sorry to uh… to drop in like this, it’s… kind of an emergency.”

“I can see that.” Tony kicks a stool toward him. “Have a seat, Titanic. What the fuck did you do to yourself?”

“Sparring with Clint. It’s been acting up for a few days now. He flipped me and it kind of… shattered.”

“What kind of acting up?” Tony’s taking way too long to collect the tools he needs, but he’s trying to keep his back to Barnes for as long as possible. 

“It’s not moving the way it’s supposed to. It’s like something’s stuck in there.”

“Any pain?” Tony grabs another stool and turns back to Barnes, who looks away immediately.

“It, uh… it always hurts.”

“Shit,” Tony says, and drags his stool to Barnes’ left side. Barnes is tense, head down slightly, flesh arm shaking as he cradles the metal one to his chest. This close, Tony can see the wrinkles in his forehead and at the edges of his eyes, evident of a lot more pain than he’s letting on.

“Hey,” Tony says, trying to be gentle. He doesn’t think it’s successful. He’s never been all that good at gentle. “It’s cool, Barnes. We’re gonna sit right here on these stools and if you get freaked out I’ll stop. Just let me know, yeah?”

“Y… yeah.” Barnes takes a breath, closes his eyes, and holds the mangled arm out. Gently, Tony pulls it over and starts to tinker.

“Surprised Steve isn’t here hovering,” Tony says, hoping light conversation will keep Barnes’ head on straight. Barnes frowns and shakes his head.

“Steve went on a run. He doesn’t like me sparring, I don’t do it when he’s here.”

“Seems like he should let you live your own life.”

Barnes shrugs his right shoulder and winces as Tony digs deeper into the inner workings of the arm. Tony pauses, glancing up, but Barnes nods his head once, teeth grit, and Tony returns to the task at hand.

God, whoever made this thing had to have been the dumbest person alive. Tony’s going to have to start working on schematics for a replacement immediately.

Because that’s something that he can do without breaking his own heart. Most definitely.

Having soulmates is stupid.

“Steve is just… worried.” Barnes sounds like this is something he’s had to remind himself of about a million times. “He thought I was dead. And now I’m back and he’s… scared I’ll snap again. And he’ll lose me.”

Tony can relate. He knows a lot about losing someone you thought you didn’t have in the first place.

“Policing you isn’t going to make you recover any better. Or faster.”

A ghost of a smile crosses Barnes’ face. “That’s what Sam says. He says I need to talk to Steve. I just don’t wanna hurt him.”

“He’ll be more hurt if you don’t tell him and he finds out. A-HA!”

Barnes jerks and reels away, eyes wide, and Tony curses himself, pushing the stool back some, hands raised.

“Sorry! Sorry. Found the culprit and got a little excited.”

Barnes settles, clearing his throat, and looks at the arm curiously. “What’s wrong with it?”

“You’ve got a gear that went a little wonky. It’s popping everything else out of place.” Tony lowers his head back to the arm and carefully twists the gear back into place. Immediately, the tension bleeds out of Barnes’ body; he gasps a bit, tipping his head back and closing his eyes in relief.

“Better?” 

“Yeah,” Barnes replies, weakly. “Loads.”

Tony smiles wryly and starts piecing the arm back together. “So, it always hurts?”

“Don’t tell Steve.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Wonderboy. Where does it hurt?”

“Pretty much everywhere.” Barnes clenches his flesh hand into a fist, his voice suddenly thick and dark. “Soldier just needed to be functional. HYDRA didn’t much care what it felt like.”

“Mind if I make some scans?”

Barnes looks up then, eyes still wide but this time in shock. “What for?”

“See if I can fix it. I don’t know if anyone’s told you, but I am… kind of a genius. And whoever made this was, uh, decidedly not.”

“What kind of scans?” He sounds nervous. Tony guesses scans from HYDRA hadn’t ever ended well. A ball of protective rage is starting to build in the pit of his stomach.

“Just ones where I can see the inner workings without having to dig around in here and hurt you more. We can do them right here in this chair, all I gotta do is put one of my helmets on and JARVIS will take it from there. No pressure, just a suggestion. It’s up to you.”

“You’ll stop if I say…?” For such a large, intimidating man, Barnes’ voice is awfully small.

“Absolutely.” Tony replaces the last panel on the arm and slides his stool back again. “Give that a whirl.”

Barnes stretches the arm out experimentally, and grins. It might be the most beautiful thing Tony’s ever seen. “Thanks, Stark.”

“No problem, Ice Age. You sure you’re good for those scans?”

“I can try.”

Tony kicks back, rolling his stool across the lab to snatch a helmet from his desk. He holds it up as he scoots back over. “Just gonna throw this bad boy on and sit right here. There’s gonna be a blue light, it’s gonna pull me a hologram of your arm. Might make a bit of a whirring noise. You good with all that?”

Barnes nods, looking grateful. “Should be. Thank you.”

“All right.” Tony slips the helmet on. “Stay still as you can for me. JARVIS?”

Barnes tenses, closes his eyes tight, and tips his head back. His flesh hand convulses in his lap, fingers digging into his thigh to brace himself. Tony’s heart does a flip-floppy, squirmy little number at the sight, but he just holds steady as JARVIS pulls the scans.

“Sir…” JARVIS’ voice sounds quiet in Tony’s ear, quiet and, if Tony didn’t know any better, concerned. “The arm appears to be anchored in Sergeant Barnes’ spine and shoulder blade.” JARVIS throws a visual up inside the mask, huge metal pins screwed roughly into bone, holy _ fuck _—

“There’s no fucking way that’s sustainable, J, how the _ hell _ has this thing stayed on so long?”

“I’m not entirely sure, sir. In fact, there’s evidence that it’s been pulled out before, based on scarring in the bone. My only guess is that the serum allows for such quick healing that the arm is able to stay in place. However, the anchors, combined with the total weight of the arm, mean that nearly any movement is going to cause severe muscle tears.”

“Christ. Thanks, J.” Tony pulls the helmet off and rubs a hand over his face. He can feel Barnes’ eyes on him, wide and worried, but he takes a few moments and a few deep breaths to steady himself before he opens his own eyes and returns the gaze.

“What’s wrong?” Barnes sounds nervous, fingers still digging into his thigh.

“This fucking thing got ripped off before.” It isn’t a question. Barnes flinches.

“I… I think so. I don’t remember much. Just… that it hurt. A lot.”

Tony stands, tense and fidgety, bouncing on his toes. He moves to his desk, snatching some spare paper and a pen, starting to sketch, trying to ignore the panic and the worry bubbling up in his chest. Barnes belongs to Steve, not to Tony, but still, the thought of what HYDRA had done, the _ sight _ of what HYDRA had done… Tony’s never felt a more protective, possessive sort of rage in his life. “This is… fuck, Barnes, the damn thing’s _ screwed into you _, you should have come to me immediately—”

“Stark—”

“Every time you move it it’s _ shredding your goddamn muscles _—”

“Tony!”

Tony falters, his pen stuttering across the paper, and looks up. Barnes is still sitting on his stool, and he looks like he might not be able to move off of it any time soon. His eyes are blown wide open, confused and intensely vulnerable and—_ fuck _—starting to well up with tears.

“What?” Tony asks, trying and not quite succeeding in keeping his voice steady. 

“I killed your parents.”

Oh. Oh, no, did Steve not tell Barnes Tony already knew? Tony knows Steve is ridiculously obtuse, but that feels like something Barnes should have already known, given he’s been living in Tony’s house. 

“Take a breath, Barnes,” Tony says, picking his pen back up and crumbling his ruined sketch in one hand. He can’t look dead at Barnes right now, not with him staring at Tony like his whole world is crumbling around him. “Rogers told me the day he brought you here.”

Tony was wrong. _ Now _ Barnes is staring at him like his whole world is crumbling around him.

“You… you knew?”

“Yeah, of course I knew. Relax, Barnes, it doesn’t matter.”

Up until this moment, Tony hadn’t known whether or not he thought it mattered. Now, all he wants is for Barnes to stop looking at him like that.

“What do you mean, it doesn’t _ matter _?” Barnes stumbles up, eyes wide, his whole body trembling. “I killed them, Stark, I…” Barnes’ voice cracks. “How could you… how can you…”

Shit, Tony’s just now realizing the shade of blue that appears on his skin when Steve is injured is the exact shade of Barnes’ eyes. If that isn’t just fucking perfect.

“Barnes.” Tony sighs and steps around his desk, rubbing the back of his neck. “How do I put this delicately? My parents were, uh, abusive shitheels. Honestly, you kinda did me a favor.”

“Wh… what?”

“I don’t really want to get into it right now. Childhood trauma and all that. Suffice it to say, I know it wasn’t your fault, you weren’t exactly at the wheel, and I’m not mad at you. Please, stop freaking out.”

Barnes’ eyes are spilling over; he shakes his head slowly, eyes fixed on Tony’s face like it’s his only anchor. For a long, stretched-out moment, the only sound in the room is the loud staccato of Barne’s breathing. 

“Barnes.” Tony’s never heard his own voice go so soft. He can’t bear this, the idea of this man so broken over giving Tony the first bit of true freedom he’d ever had in his life. “I’m serious. Don’t stress. You’re good.” 

Barnes doesn’t say anything after that. After a moment, Tony slowly turns back to his work bench. Barnes stays on the stool for five very long minutes, just staring at Tony as he works. And then, abruptly, he stands and walks out of the lab. 

“Uh, Barnes! Hey!’

“Sergeant Barnes is already in the elevator, sir,” JARVIS says. “Shall I ask him to come back?”

Tony’s heart is somewhere in his knees, but he turns back to his work with a shake of his head. “Nah, J, it’s fine. Already know it’s not meant to be.”

* * *

“Sir, Sergeant Barnes is outside.”

It’s been two days since Barnes rushed out of Tony’s lab, and Tony hadn’t expected him to ever come back. He drops his wrench and jets out of his seat, snatching his flannel and his gloves and pulling them both on as quickly as possible. “Uh, okay, let him in!”

The door swings open, and Barnes walks—more like stalks—into the room, body tense. He’s holding a covered plate in his metal hand, and he approaches and thrusts it between them like a shield.

“Uh… hi?”

“I bake now. Sam says tasks with routine steps and good outcomes will keep me on track.” Barnes’ voice is almost robotic, but his eyes, fixed on a point just over Tony’s left shoulder, are flickering with fear. “So I brought you these. Peace offering.”

Tony takes the plate. “Uh, thanks, big guy. You look like shit.”

He mostly says it to break the tension in the room, but it’s true. Barnes looks significantly worse than he had two days previously; his eyes are rimmed with dark circles, his hair is scraggly, and he’s only wearing grey sweatpants and a t-shirt Tony knows to be Steve’s. Tony thinks the emotion he feels as he looks at Barnes might be worry. 

Tony isn’t used to worry.

“Sleeping is hard,” Barnes says, and they’re quiet for a while. Then Dum-E drops the screwdriver he’d been holding, and makes a forlorn little beeping noise, and Barnes jumps.

“Sorry,” he says abruptly. “I didn’t mean… I’m interrupting. I’ll go.”

Before Tony even knows his hand has moved, he’s caught Barnes by the wrist. “Hold up,” he says, trying not to sound as desperate as he feels. “I’m not going to be able to eat all of this by myself. You didn’t even tell me what this _ is _.”

Barnes looks back at Tony, actually looks at him this time, gaze sharp and discerning. But he doesn’t pull his hand from Tony’s grasp, and his shoulders loosen a bit.

“Oatmeal cookies. White chocolate. Ginger. Cardamom. Pepper says they’re good. I guess she’s the final authority here anyway.”

Tony releases Barnes’ wrist, sets the plate down, and peels back the foil covering it. The cookies look incredible. And they taste—god_ damn _—

“Holy shit, Barnes, you were _ wasted _ in HYDRA,” Tony says through a mouthful of cookie. Barnes blinks in surprise, and then smiles, slow and sweet.

“Good?”

“Hell yeah. I think I changed my mind about needing help to eat these.”

Lightning fast, Barnes reaches out and snatches a cookie from the plate and stuffs it in his mouth. Tony laughs, and Barnes grins. The fear is bleeding out of his eyes, replaced with… is that fondness? Tony glances away quickly.

“You can hang out, if you want, on that couch over there,” he says, waving a hand. “Take a handful of these babies. I’m not great at chatting when I’m working, but—”

“I’m not great at chatting,” Barnes replies. “You’ll be great company.” He takes a stack of cookies and moves over to the couch, draping himself across it. Tony chuckles and turns back to his desk, putting together the new arm prototype with new fervor.

When he glances over at the couch a few minutes later, Barnes is sprawled across it, fast asleep, half a cookie still hanging from his mouth.

* * *

Barnes visits the lab almost every day after that. At first, he and Tony don’t talk much; Barnes usually brings a baked good of some sort, and sits on the couch to watch Tony work. Then, a few days later, Barnes starts asking questions.

They’re always about the work, never about Tony himself, but Tony can tell by his tone that he’s actually interested. So Tony has him pull up a stool and keeps up a running narrative of what he’s doing and how and why. And Barnes is… really fucking smart. It’s nice to have someone besides Bruce who can keep up with him.

“You used to come to family dinners.”

Tony drops his screwdriver; it rolls across the floor, and he scrambles after it with a muttered curse. When he surfaces, Barnes still hasn’t moved.

“I… yeah.”

“You stopped when I arrived. Steve and Nat confirmed.”

“Oh, she’s _ Nat _ to you? Bullshit. I can’t even call her Nat.” Tony shakes the screwdriver vaguely in Barnes’ direction. His hands are trembling.

“I don’t mean to keep you from your family, Stark.” Barnes is uncharacteristically soft-spoken. “If my presence at dinner unnerves you, I can stay in my room.”

“I… no. No, Barnes, trust me, it’s unrelated. I’ve just been busy.”

“They miss you. Especially Steve.”

Tony nearly drops his screwdriver again. “Who died and made you my therapist, Barnes?” Now his voice is trembling too, god_ damn _ it.

“James.”

“_ What _?” Tony whips around at that, looking Barnes dead in the face. “What did you just say?”

“My friends call me James now,” Barnes says simply, and stands. There’s a little bit of a smile on his face, presumably because of the dumbstruck look Tony knows he’s wearing. “Dinner’s tomorrow. I’ll be there if you will.”

And he leaves.

When Tony pulls his flannel and gloves off, his left arm is the same shade of bright red as his suits.


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> all i can say is i'm sorry, thank you for your patience, and i hope this lives up to your expectations. happy holidays and a blessed new year, my friends. much love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter-specific warnings: blood, non-explicit torture, non-explicit vomiting scene, trauma, lots of feelings

It’s five in the morning when Tony gets the call, what appears to be a rogue HYDRA unit trying to take over a bank in Brooklyn. SHIELD says there’s only five or six guys there, no need to send the whole team. So Tony suits up and tells Steve to meet him in the hangar. When Tony gets there, Steve is suited up—and so is James. And they’re arguing, loud.

“I’m not letting you go alone!”

“It’s HYDRA, Buck, are you insane? We haven’t even gotten rid of your code words, for god’s sake!”

“Cap’s right,” Tony says, approaching and raising his helmet. “You’re sitting this one out.”

James whirls on Tony, glaring daggers. “You too?”

“You,” Tony jabs a finger toward James’ chest, not quite accusing but emphatic all the same, “would be a liability. I’m sorry, but Steve’s right. You’re not mentally ready for combat with HYDRA—”

“I’ll be fine!”

“And even if you were,” Tony carries on loudly, “there’s no goddamn way I’m letting you into active combat before your new arm is ready.”

Tony falls silent, gazing pointedly at James’ shoulder, daring him to make Tony talk about the anchors in front of Steve. James scowls, looking away. It’s Steve who breaks the silence.

“You’re… making him a new arm?”

Steve’s voice sounds oddly frail, and when Tony looks at him, there are tears filling his eyes. Tony’s suddenly aware this is the first time he’s been face-to-face with Steve in nearly three months. He averts his eyes quickly.

“Old news, Rogers,” he says. “You think I’m letting that outdated piece of shit stay in my tower? What would people think?”

Steve clears his throat. “We should… we should go.”

“Indeed.” Tony turns to James and smiles. “We’ll be home by dinner, James. Don’t do anything stupid.”

James grins, shaky. “You’re taking all the stupid with you,” he says, nodding at Steve.

“Hey,” Steve protests, but there’s no real heat behind his words. In fact, he’s smiling and he’s staring at both James  _ and  _ Tony like they hung the moon and stars in the sky. 

That’s new.

“All right, all right, Mr. Star-Spangled Stupid, let’s get outta here.”

James watches them from the hangar bay until their plane is out of sight.

Steve breaks the silence first, fiddling with the leather strap of his shield, looking and sounding like a fumbling schoolgirl. “You, uh. You’ve been hanging out with Bucky?”

“He comes to the lab when you’re out on your runs. I wouldn’t say hang out as much as ‘he pesters me mercilessly while I’m trying to work.’”

Steve starts to laugh, then aborts the sound the moment it leaves his mouth. The lingering echo of it sets Tony’s stomach squirming. Quickly, he turns to the controls and starts to fiddle, even though the Quinjet is on autopilot and he and Steve both know it.

“Well, he… he’s been doing a lot better the past few weeks. I guess you’re partially to thank for that. So thank you, Tony. It means a lot. I know dealing with Bucky must be… challenging… for you…”

“Why, because he was a ruthless killing machine who wiped out my whole family and didn’t even know it?”

Steve flinches, and so does Tony.

“Sorry,” Tony says, around the lump in his throat. “Sorry, I… he’s a great guy. You’re really lucky.”

His words come out as hollow as the inside of his chest feels. It’s true; that’s not the issue. Or maybe the fact that it’s true is precisely the issue. Because James is, in fact, a really great guy, and so is Steve, and the two of them are incredibly lucky. But it’s at the expense of Tony being alone. As always. Because Tony’s never been lucky a day in his life.

“We both are,” Steve says, quietly, and his eyes are boring right into Tony as he speaks. “And we’re lucky to have you, too.”   
“Wh...what?” Don’t do this, Steve, please don’t. Please don’t.

“You’re making him a new arm. I can’t… I can’t tell you how much that means to both of us, Tony.”

Oh. The arm. He doesn’t mean Tony, he just means Tony’s tech. That should make Tony feel better, but it just succeeds in making it feel like the bottom of the Quinjet crumbled away from him. He fidgets with the controls again, trying desperately to look, feel busy.

“Well, like I said. I can’t have that outdated piece of crap walking around my tower. What would people think?”

Tony’s skin buzzes with static as Steve’s gaze stays steady. Tony’s going to have to come up with an update to the Quinjets after he’s done with James’ arm. It’s not flying nearly fast enough.

“Is that all?” Steve asks, even quieter, and Tony’s stomach swoops away to settle somewhere around his shins.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You called him James.”

“Yeah, and? He asked me to.” 

“I didn’t realize you two were so close.”

“Jesus, Rogers, I just said he hangs out in the workshop while I work, it’s not that serious. I’m not trying to come on to your fucking soulmate.”

Tony almost chokes on the last word, and hugs his left arm to his side. His eyes are burning, actually burning, like he’s some sort of lovesick teenager.

“Tony, that’s not what I meant.” Steve’s voice is infuriatingly calm. “He just… doesn’t usually mention you to me. That’s all.”

That’s all. Like that’s not the most heart-wrenching, isolating sentence Steve could have possibly uttered.

So James hasn’t mentioned him.

Why would he? They aren’t actually friends. Tony’s just a convenient distraction while Steve’s out on his daily runs. Tony’s making him the new arm, he’s probably just hanging around to make sure it’s made correctly. Once it’s done, Tony will probably never see James again.

The thought churns around in his stomach; never seeing James again. Tony’s never felt more like vomiting.

“Tony, you okay?”

“Yeah. We’re almost there,” Tony says, hollow, soft. “Let’s run a comms check.”

Steve nods, picks up his earpiece, slips it in his ear. And just like that, Steve and Tony are gone, leaving Captain America and Iron Man to prepare for battle, a smooth and well-oiled machine. They are ready in minutes, quiet and composed, waiting to arrive at the bank in question.

“You ready, Tony?"

"Are you?"

Steve snorts. "Should I be? This one should be fairly straightforward, according to SHIELD."

“And since when has SHIELD ever been right about anything?"

“True. I think we're here."

Steve stands, strapping on his shield, giving Tony a sideways smile.

"Ready?"

“On your orders, Captain."

And off they go.

* * *

SHIELD, per usual, was in fact wrong. This time, in perhaps the most dangerous way they've ever been.

Six men, according to SHIELD. And yet, there were at least sixty. 

Steve goes down first, under thirty-odd men, shield flung to the wayside, an aborted yell on his lips— "Tony, get the fuck out—"

Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this. Tony’s not losing Steve right here, not like this. 

"JARVIS! Activate Baby Gate Protocol and transfer the suit to Captain Rogers!”

“Sir, chances of survival without the suit are—“

“Transfer! Now!!”

“Transfer confirmed, sir.”

The suit crumbles away, leaving Tony dressed in— _ fuck _ —jeans and a white tee, his bright-red arm fully visible, new blue splotches across his arms and he’s sure his face, where Steve has been hit. The suit shoots piece by piece across the battle, laying waste to HYDRA agents, and locks itself around Steve’s body, one piece at a time, raising him off the ground and away from the melee. Steve looks around frantically, and his gaze locks on Tony, and all at once Tony sees him take in the colors, blotchy across his body.

And Steve—Steve  _ screams _ . Desperate, agonized, nearly feral. It’s the worst thing Tony’s ever heard.

“No, NO,  _ TONY _ —”

The mask closes over Steve’s face, the final piece of the suit, and JARVIS jets Steve higher up and out of the building, speeding him back to the Quinjet as the HYDRA soldiers watch in shock.

And then they turn toward Tony, and one of them lets out an angry shout, and very soon after that the whole world goes dark. 

* * *

  
  


Pain is contorting Tony’s stomach into knots the next time he wakes, pressing against his lungs, obstructing his breathing. Something is tied tightly around his eyes, nearly obstructing his nose as well, thick and black and scratchy. His head feels swollen, groggy. It seems, the way his body is contorted, that he’s strapped into a chair, wrists and ankles and waist all wrapped tightly with equally scratchy rope. As soon as he attempts to move his arms, a wave of pain crashes over him; it seems focused in his forearms, where the sensors that call the suit are supposed to be buried.

Oh god. Oh, fuck. Did they cut them out?

That sort of complicates things.

Tony tilts his head slightly, ignoring the sickening throb that shoots through his temples. He’s trying to see if his earpiece is still intact, but considering they ripped the sensors from his arms, that seems unlikely. 

No suit, no sensors, no JARVIS.

What is he without all that again? Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist? 

None of that shit’s going to do anything to help him out here.

“Are you awake, Mr. Stark?”

Tony tenses. There’s a lot of menace in this unfamiliar voice.

There’s more in the soft chuckle that follows. 

Footsteps move toward him, and rough fingers yank away the blindfold, and then Tony’s blinking and squinting in what looks to be an abandoned, dimly-lit closet. Even the little bit of light his eyes can take in makes his head pound even worse.

Tony’s still in the t-shirt and jeans, barefoot, still covered in James’ red and Steve’s splotches of blue, now mottled with sluggish, half-dried blood smeared across his forearms. He was right about the sensors.

His heart pounds a little faster.

And then a little faster than that, when the man the voice belongs to steps back around the chair and into view.

He can’t be much older than Tony, but his face is a little crumpled, a little wrinkled, like he’s sustained some injuries his skin couldn’t quite recover from. He sits down in a spindly little chair across from Tony and fiddles with something set on a tripod next to him. A solid red dot blinks on, and the man smiles, twisted.

It’s a video camera.

Oh, boy.

“Hello, Mr. Stark. My name is Ansel Weber. There’s no need to be worried; as long as you cooperate, we’re only going to talk.”

“Couldn’t we have done this over lunch, or something?”

Tony’s voice almost doesn’t sound recognizable, even to his own ears, all scratchy throat and cracked syllables. He’s proud of himself, though; he mostly keeps it from trembling.

Weber laughs, soft and chilling. “There really isn’t much for you to worry about, Mr. Stark. We just want the Soldier.”

Tony’s blood turns to ice, like it did the day he plummeted back to earth in New York. It’s even less pleasant this time.

They want James. They want Tony to give them James.

Weber is still talking. “We were hoping to capture Captain Rogers instead, of course, and convince the Soldier to turn himself in to secure his release. You’re posing a bit more of a problem. Or, perhaps, an even easier solution.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tony growls out.

“Be polite, Mr. Stark. You’re on camera.”

Tony glances at the camera and grits his teeth. It hurts, a lot. 

“Baby Gate Protocol, is that what my men heard? What does that entail?”

“Complete lockdown of Avengers Tower. Only vital personnel allowed in or out, requiring a full-body scan that is impossible to bypass. My people can go in and out as they please. Yours can’t get in.”

“Is there a bypass code?”

“I’m the only one who knows it.”

“I see,” Weber says, and settles in his chair, looking at Tony contemplatively. “Well, Mr. Stark, my request is very simple. Give me the access code. My men will escort you back to the tower, and we will retrieve what is ours. We will allow you to go home, without any more trouble.”

“So let me get this straight. You want me to give HYDRA access to my home, my friends, and the people I employ, so you can re-kidnap and re-torture a man you previously held captive and destroyed for seventy goddamn years?”

Weber frowns. “HYDRA found the Soldier. HYDRA made the Soldier who he is. HYDRA owns the Soldier. He is rightfully ours.”

“He ain’t the Soldier anymore, pal.” Tony smirks. “He’s got a name. He’s got agency. He bakes.”

Weber’s eyebrow twitches a bit, and he sighs. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be, Mr. Stark. I really don’t want to hurt you.”

“Wish you’d had the same sentiment before you carved my arms to ribbons.”

“A necessary precaution.” Weber sighs and stands, and Tony presses back into the chair. His heart is skipping beats in his chest—Weber no longer looks calm. His strange, crumpled face now looks set, annoyed. He steps toward Tony, around to his left side, and looks down at Tony’s arm curiously. Then, all at once, his mouth spreads into a wide, horrible grin.

And that’s when Tony knows, with a cold and horrific certainty, that he’s in way more danger than he’s ever been in his life.

“Mr. Stark,” Weber says, very quietly, still with that terrifying grin on his face. “What is this?”

Tony can’t speak. It feels like something’s closing around his throat, tight and unforgiving. Weber’s twisted smile grows even wider.

“Well,” Weber says, so quietly Tony has to strain his ears to hear. “Hasn’t this just gotten interesting.”

And from a dark leather sheath at his side, Weber pulls out a long, glistening knife.

“Smile, Mr. Stark. You’re on camera.”

* * *

Tony’s never seen so much of his own blood before. He’s never seen the bones in his own forearms, either. The knife and the pain and the blood and the bone and the little red dot from the camera go on for hours, for days, for weeks, for years, for Tony doesn’t know how long. Weber stays quiet unless he’s asking for the code word.

Tony tries to stay quiet, but genius billionaire playboy philanthropist can’t shield against this much pain.

* * *

Tony dreams of red, the lasery red of the camera light and the bright red of James’ colors across his skin and the dark, sickly red of his own blood splashed around him. He dreams of James’ voice calling out to him, but he can’t make out the words, just fractured syllables and screams.

When he wakes up, he sees more red, staining his skin, leaking out of his body, blinking from the camera still set up beside Weber’s empty chair.

“Good morning, Mr. Stark. We’re live.”

There’s so much more red. It builds up in Tony and spills out, a tidal wave of agony.

* * *

Days and nights and dreams and waking and James’ desperate voice and Weber’s cruel laughter all roll into one big cloud of red. Tony’s not sure there’s anything left outside of the fog. It’s cold and suffocating and all-consuming. 

He couldn’t tell Weber the code anymore, even if he wanted to. He doesn’t remember it. All he knows is the red fog and his own blood, drying and cracking on his skin, bubbling up in his throat and mouth.

Weber and the camera light and the blood are relentless. Tony has nothing left outside of them.

* * *

There’s a new voice, not Weber’s, and it’s soft and gentle even though there’s a little bit of bite to it. Tony peeks his eyes open, and sees a face framed by a braid of hair, red, and whines softly. He snaps his eyes shut again, he’s so tired of red. 

Small hands work at the knots around his body. Another pair of hands pulls him from the chair;

Tony stumbles, slumps, sliding in a puddle of his own blood. There are overlapping voices; they sound familiar but Tony can’t place them. Right now he only knows James’ voice, and Weber’s, and the sound of his own screams.

The second pair of hands lifts him from the floor and tosses him over a shoulder, and Tony wails a little at the jostle. The body he’s resting against flinches and shifts him carefully, the voice attached to it murmuring softly at him. They move quickly, away from the chair, and in a moment Tony’s ears are assaulted, a cacophony of shouts and clashes and blasts. Tony opens his eyes again, catches glimpses of black and gunmetal and then a large wall of green. After that there’s another burst of red, of blood splattering against the green, and Tony snaps his eyes shut again with another wail. 

And then there’s another voice, and even though Tony still can’t make the words make sense to his red-fogged brain, there’s a bolstering familiarity to it. It makes bright blue flash behind his eyelids, and Tony just wants to reach out and grab it and never let it go again.

The person holding Tony keeps moving, steadily, through the noise and the scuffle around them, but then the blue-voice speaks again, loud and panicked and desperate, and this time Tony can hear the words.

“No, Barton, LOOK OUT!”

And then, an explosion, the sensation of flying. Tony hits the ground hard, the other person skidding away somewhere out of reach, and there’s a sudden rush of heat and pain and  _ red _ , burning into his face, blocking out any other color.

And as the red consumes him, all Tony can hope is that he never wakes again. 

* * *

It’s warm when Tony wakes up. Something is beeping, a low, even cadence, next to him, and there’s a heavy weight over his left hand. He tries to open his eyes, but something thick is wrapped around them, blocking out any light. It’s not as tight and scratchy as the blindfold he was wearing when he first awoke with Weber, but it still sends a little trickle of fear down his spine.

Is he… what is this?

“Tony?”

Oh god. Oh no, that’s James’ voice. He’s dreaming again.

It’s going to be worse when he wakes up. It’s always worse.

Tony can’t help it anymore. He whines, clinging tight to the hand resting on top of his, and prays it will be enough to keep him in the dream. It’s nicer than the others he’s had; he actually feels warm and safe here. There’s no underlying current of dread this time.

“Tony,” James says again, and Tony feels a hand ghost across his hair, hears the soft creak of metal joints near his ear. “Can you hear me, doll?”

“Stop,” Tony whimpers, even as he presses up into the gentle touch. The hand returns, stroking Tony’s hair off of his forehead. 

“Shh, doll. It’s okay.” 

“Stop,” Tony says again, his hand convulsing around the one holding his. “Stop… don’t wake me up…”

The real James wouldn’t be holding him like this. Not if he saw those videos. Not if he saw Tony’s arm.

“Shh. You ain’t dreaming, doll.”

“You’re here.”

“I know I’m here. I promise, you’re not dreaming. Your face is burnt up pretty bad, Tony, I can’t take those bandages off. But it’s me, I promise—JARVIS. Tell him, please.”

“Hello, Sir,” says JARVIS’ soft, calm voice from somewhere above him. “It’s January 18th, 2015. You’re at Avengers’ Tower, in the hospital wing. Sergeant Barnes is here with you.”

“J...JARVIS?” 

“The one and only, sir.”

Tony trembles, turns his head toward James again, and sobs. Immediately the soft hand in his hair returns, stroking and smoothing through the tangles there. It’s cool, soothing against Tony’s skin—it feels nice. Tony had almost forgotten someone touching him could feel nice. 

“Shh, doll,” James whispers. “Everything’s gonna be okay, I promise.” 

Tony just might believe him, for once in his life. He can’t remember a time when he’s felt more safe and warm, James’ presence calm and soothing where it hovers above him. He can feel himself slipping already, fading back into unconsciousness, so he clings to James’ hand a little tighter and hopes to god he isn’t dreaming. 

“Please don’t go,” he whispers, soft and slurred and yet intensely pleading. He thinks he hears James let out a little sob. 

“It’s okay, Tony. You can rest. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

Tony’s asleep again before the last words leave James’ mouth.

* * *

  
  


When Tony wakes again, he can tell almost immediately that the bandages around his head are gone. The skin around his eyes feels raw, exposed; opening his eyes is going to hurt. A lot. So he lays still and tense and tries to listen, tries to figure out if he really is safe, really is home.

Then, a soft voice above him—JARVIS’ voice. “Sergeant Barnes, sir.”

And a rustle, a sleepy intake of breath, the sound of a chair creaking its way across the floor.

And then—hoarse and a little groggy—James’ voice, on his left. “Tony. Doll, you awake?”

“Yeah,” Tony whispers, after a brief pause. “Yeah, I’m awake.”

He’s trying to remember if he’s ever been called a pet name before. If he has, it’s been a really, really long time.

“The doc took your bandages off this morning. He says your face might be tender for a few more days, but we’re not looking at a lot of scarring. Which is good… he thought it might be a lot worse.”

Tony nods slowly, picking at the sheets under his fingers. The pain isn’t what worries him; he’s gotten very used to pain. And it’s not the scarring either. That’s something that would have upset him a few years ago, but now he couldn’t care any less. 

No, what’s keeping him from opening his eyes right now is that James is hovering over him, worry buzzing from every inch of his sizeable bulk, and if Tony’s face is injured then James’ own face is going to show some sign of it.

Or it’s not. Tony’s not sure which sight would destroy him more. 

“Tony,” James says, and his voice shakes. “Tony, c’mon. Look at me. Please.”

Tony’s never heard James like this, all gentle and yet desperate at the same time. And whatever the results of opening his eyes, Tony doesn’t want to hear James that desperate. It hurts too much. So Tony takes a deep, steadying breath, and clutches at the sheets under him, and peels his eyes open.

It  _ burns _ , and everything’s fuzzy, faded. But James is there, hanging over him, and spread across his face is… is…

Oh. Oh, my god. 

Oh, my god.

James’ face is  _ gold _ , rich and vibrant and… and  _ beautiful _ , spread across his eyes and up to his forehead, mottling down the side of his right cheek. 

“Oh,” Tony whispers, and then a sob catches in his throat, tearing its way through his mouth. 

James’ hands are there in an instant, cupping gently around Tony’s face, flesh thumb stroking across his cheek. His own eyes are wide and teary, staring at Tony like he’s James’ lifeline.

“There you are,” he whispers. “Heya, doll.”

His words are so tender Tony’s entire being shakes with it. 

“Hi,” he whispers. “I… what happened?”

“Steve and Nat found the warehouse you were being kept in and brought you home almost a week ago. Do you remember that?”

Tony remembers some of it, in flashes. A lot of yelling, a lot of screams, a lot of  _ pain _ .

And red. So much red.

“Sort of.”

“Your face got pretty burned up in the scuffle. We were… we were really worried about you for a while there. But you have a great team of doctors here. Like I said, you’ll barely scar.”

“Gotta have a great team of doctors. Steve lives here.”

James cracks a little smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ve got me there.”

“Where… where is Steve?” Tony hopes his voice doesn’t betray the desperation he’s feeling. The last time he truly remembers seeing Steve is the day they were separated, and even though he knows Steve must be okay if he headed the rescue mission, he won’t believe it until he sees Steve standing in front of him.

Tony doesn’t even care about the colors at this point. He just wants Steve to be okay.

“Steve is…” James looks so apologetic. “Tony, Steve’s not here.”

Tony could have been plunged into ice at that moment and not noticed. His breaths stutter in his chest, and his whole body tenses. “What do you mean? Where is he?”

“I… I’m not sure. As soon as he got you home and was told that you were going to be okay, he left. He hasn’t been back.”

“Oh,” Tony says again. This time, it’s stiff and lifeless. 

He should have known. He should have known Steve wouldn’t want him, wouldn’t want to be anywhere near him. Not after those videos. Steve only saved him to repay him for sending him away with the suit, or so he could finish James’ new arm, or something. 

“I’m sorry, Tony, I tried to stop him, I’m not very happy with him either—”   
“No, it’s okay. It’s fine.” Tony casts his eyes around, trying to find something to look at besides James’ pity-filled face. He lands on his arms, and flinches instinctively before forcing himself to relax. 

Both his arms are wrapped in thick, white bandages, so that they’re almost double their usual size. The only free skin Tony can see is on his hands, mercifully free of red. His right hand looks completely normal, resting on top of the shitty hospital blankets; his left is a soft, cool blue-white reminiscent of the arc reactor.

Oh.

It probably is the arc reactor, if the way James is looking at his is any indication.

Tony can’t understand why James would be looking at him like that, like he’s a missing piece of James’ soul that James has only just gotten back. 

Tony doesn’t want to know, but he has to.

“Did he… did you… watch…”

James winces, all teary and distress, and nods. “I saw the first two. Steve and Nat wouldn’t let me watch after that.”

“I—I’m sorry, I…”

“What? Tony. Tony, no.” James’ voice cracks. He looks so upset. “God, I… I’m the one who should be sorry. I can’t believe you would go through all that.”

His unspoken  _ for me _ dangles in the air between them. Tony’s eyes are burning. 

“I tried to turn myself in. The tower wouldn’t let me leave.”

Oh, James. No.

“I wrote the Baby Gate Protocol after you moved in. I figured if HYDRA got anywhere near the tower they’d be looking for you, so I made sure you couldn’t leave. It’s virtually impossible to bypass the body scan, it’s locked onto your DNA.” Tony almost smiles. “You’d have passed it in 1941. That’s how detailed it is.”

James looks like he can’t decide whether to laugh or cry. Instead of either, he hiccups a bit and runs his hand through Tony’s hair again. His metal joints squeak and squeal, loud and tinny in Tony’s ear.

“You’re amazing, Tony, you know that?”

He’s trying to be sappy, and Tony’s not having it. “James, what the  _ fuck _ did you do to your arm.”

“I, uh.” James squirms. “Punched a couple walls. And broke Steve’s jaw.”

“What the fuck, James.”

“I know. I know, I’m sorry.”

He looks so defeated, and tired, and the lines around his eyes suggest he’s in pain. Tony wonders with a pang how long it’s been since the arm was broken. He doesn’t want to ask—there are no good answers. JARVIS said it was January 18th the last time Tony woke up, and he and Steve’s mission was at the beginning of December. That’s a long time for James to be in pain.

That’s a long time for Tony to be gone.

“I was going to finish your arm for Christmas,” Tony says, almost a whisper. 

“Tony,” James says, and his whole face crumples. And then his whole body crumples, and slumps onto the bed next to Tony, face pressed into the blankets up against Tony’s left arm. His shoulders shake, one big shudder that dissolves into a constant stream of smaller ones. Tony wants to help, wants to comfort, but his arms are wrapped in too thick a layer of bandages to move.

“James,” he whispers. “James, it’s okay.”

James’ shoulders just keep shaking. Tony can’t take it.

“Jamie, please.”

James snaps his head up at that, all swollen and red and wet, and stares. “Did you just…”

“Sorry.” Tony flushes and looks away. Too much, too soon. He needs to be more careful.

“No, Tony. It’s okay. I just…” James sniffles and swipes under his nose. “You just spent almost two months being… being… and you’re here worrying about my fucking arm.”

“Of course I worry. You said it yourself, it always hurts.”

“We don’t deserve you.”

“Well yeah. I knew that.”

James smiles, watery and weak, and leans forward a little. Tony shudders for a moment, struggling through a rush of  _ knife _ and  _ hurt _ and  _ no _ , before he manages to calm himself just in time for James to press his forehead to Tony’s.

Then they just… sit there for a while.

It’s nice. It almost makes Tony forget about the red for a little while.

* * *

Natasha comes to visit him, tight-lipped with creases around her eyes. Tony flinches at the sight of her hair at first, but after she sits next to him for a while, her calloused little hand resting atop of his, he finds he can look at her without any trouble. When Tony gets too tired to keep his eyes open, she applies soft pressure to his hand and stands. 

“Tony,” she says, the first words since she set foot in the infirmary, “you are indispensable. And I don’t mean Iron Man. Think before you throw yourself into danger like that again.”

Tony’s face grows hot, his throat tightening. Natasha brushes her hand across his right temple, where the only burn scar still remains. She smiles.

“We are your family. Please don’t forget that again.”

And she leaves.

Barton comes too, the next day, looking tired and worried and a little nervous.

“Hey, Stark. I’m… sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t see the bomb until I was right up on it, I just wanted to get you out of there, I didn’t mean for you to—”

“Clint.” Tony waits for him to stutter to a halt. “Thank you. Are you hurt?”

All the nervous bleeds out of Barton, leaving a little shell of relief and surprise. “Oh. No, I… I’m okay now. Just a few small burns, they’re almost healed.”

Tony nods. “I owe you one.”

“Nah you don’t,” Barton says, and heads back for the door. “That’s what family’s for.”

* * *

  
  


Tony’s in the infirmary for another week. The bandages have to stay on for two more weeks after that. Tony never watches when the wounds are cleaned; he doesn’t have the strength in him yet to see what Weber has done to him. James practices solidarity by wearing long sleeves when he’s around Tony, which is almost constantly.

Finally, it’s time for the bandages to come off, and James hovers nervously around Tony’s chair as they wait for the doctor to arrive.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this? I can go get you a long sleeve to change right into. It’ll only take a second.”

“No, it’s okay. I have to see them at some point.” Tony wishes his voice wouldn’t shake like this, but he’s pretty sure James would know he’s lying either way. To James’ credit, he doesn’t argue, just takes Tony’s left hand and squeezes. It gifts Tony just enough courage to keep him from bolting when the doctor walks in the door.

“Are you ready, Mr. Stark?” she asks. Tony nods and turns his face into James’ shoulder, and James squeezes Tony’s hand again.

The bandages are off much too quickly for Tony’s liking; he keeps his face pressed into James’ shoulder as the doctor talks about aftercare and scarring and not straining himself. He can feel James nodding along as she speaks.

She’s a good doctor. Tony reminds himself to give her a raise, once he can breathe without panicking. 

“Thank you, Dr. Schimmel,” James says, once she’s done with her spiel. 

“Of course, Sergeant. I’ll give you two some space. Mr. Stark, feel free to contact me at any time if you have any questions. JARVIS will have my email address ready for you.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Tony says, muffled by James’ arm. There’s a pause, the squeak of her sneakers across the floor, and the sound of the door opening and shutting quietly. 

“Tony?”

“Give me a sec,” Tony gasps out, tangling his fingers in James’ shirt. James shifts so that Tony’s face is now pressed against his chest instead of his shoulder, and wraps both of his arms tightly around Tony. 

“Take as long as you need,” James says quietly. “I’m here.”

Tony stays curled into James’ chest for a long time, until his heart rate slows, until there’s less static in his head. Slowly he pulls in a breath, and pulls away from James’ chest just enough that he can look him in the eye.

“Is it bad?” 

He hates how much he sounds like a child. James takes a deep breath.

“It’s pretty bad, Tony. But it could look worse. And they’re still healing, they’ll fade more with time.”

Tony mimics James’ deep breath with one of his own, and grits his teeth, and looks at his arms.

And then he throws up all over the floor. 

James holds him steady, flesh arm wrapped around his waist and metal hand resting on his forehead, calm and cooling as the rushing heat of panic and disgust rolls through him. Once he’s expelled everything in his stomach, he just slumps, held up by James’ arms around him.

“It’s okay, Tony, it’s gonna be okay—JARVIS. Can you send in a cleanup crew?”

“Biohazard incoming, five minutes, Sergeant.”

“Thank you.” James shifts, using his flesh arm to lift Tony off his feet, bracing him carefully against James’ chest with the metal one. It creaks in protest, and Tony flinches.

“It’s okay, Tony,” James says again. “Come on, let’s get you upstairs, we can find you a new shirt—”

“No. Lab.”

“Doll—”

“Lab.  _ Now _ .”

James sighs, and it feels like he’s going to argue, but then he shifts Tony again. The metal arm  _ shrieks  _ this time, and James can’t keep back a little stuttering gasp of pain. He tightens the grip of his flesh arm around Tony, takes a second to collect himself, and clears his throat. “Are you sure?”

“I can fix it, so let me fucking  _ fix it _ . Please.”

James sighs again, but when he steps into the elevator he presses the right button.

“Put me down,” Tony says, wriggling what he hopes is just enough to be annoying but not too much to cause more pain to the arm. 

“Tony,” James protests, and Tony wriggles a little more. 

“Put me down, I’m not a child.”

“No one thinks you’re a child,” James says, even as he sets Tony down and stretches the metal arm out, wincing and flinching as it screeches and rattles. “I’m just worried about you.”

“I’m fine.” Tony wraps his arms around his torso and tips his head back against the cool metal wall of the elevator. He breathes deep and tries to relax, tries to convince himself the mangled remains of the skin of his arms doesn’t look as bad as his panicked brain is telling him. 

It’s not working.

“Tony, they’re not even half-done healing. They’re still raised. The redness is gonna go down, I swear. It’s just going to take a few more weeks.”

“I know.” And Tony’s telling the truth; intellectually he does know. He knows wounds like this take a long time to heal, that in a few week’s time he won’t be able to feel them raised like mountains across his skin. 

But right now they’re still so goddamn  _ red _ . And Tony doesn’t want to see Weber’s knife coming for him at the corners of his eyes, every time he looks down. He already sees it every night.

Mercifully, they arrive at the lab before James can say anything. Tony bolts from the elevator and to the door, pressing his hand to the scanner, nearly buckling in relief as he hears the familiar sound of the lock clicking and a small rush of air from the door sliding open.

“Welcome home, sir,” JARVIS says as Tony steps inside, James frowning along at his heels.

“Thanks, pal,” Tony says. Everything is just how he left it, except JARVIS has somehow had the foresight to close the doors of the cabinets where Tony stores the suits. Smart; being greeted by a barrage of acid-red might have sent Tony straight into catatonia. DUM-E and the other robots greet Tony with a long string of excited chirps, and Tony grins. Welcome home indeed.

Tony moves with purpose; having something to do is the only thing keeping him sane at this point. He snags his grease-stained flannel from the chair he’d left it on, that last night before, and shrugs it on. His shoulders relax minutely as the fabric covers the scars along his arms. He kicks a wheeled stool toward James, and moves to collect his tool kit, spread out over a nearby table.

“Sit.”

“Tony.” James doesn’t sit. “Can we talk about this?”

“Sure, once you can move without sounding like someone put a cat in a dryer. Sit. The fuck. Down.”

Thusly, James sits the fuck down. Tony drags over a small table for the arm to rest on, and then doubles back to get his own chair. 

“I’ll need to do another scan. JARVIS, can I get a—” Tony’s voice falters before he can get out the word  _ helmet _ . He’s not sure he can put one on, not when the inside blinks red in a manner not unlike the video camera.

“If I may, sir,” JARVIS says, “you have a pair of sunglasses in your upper left-hand drawer. I should be able to complete the scan from them.”

“If you had a body, I’d kiss you, J.” Tony yanks the drawer open and grabs out the glasses before sliding over to initiate the scan.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, sir.” If Tony didn’t know any better, he’d say JARVIS sounded amused. 

The arm is well and truly fucked, a mess of wonky gears and twisted wires. Tony swears under his breath and removes the glasses, tossing them away and pinching the skin between his eyes. 

“Is this the same model they put on you in the 40s?” he asks, even though he doesn’t really want to know the answer. 

“I’m not sure,” James says after a pause. “I was usually fresh out of cryo if they did any repairs.”

_ Fresh out of cryo _ ’s never going to fail to turn Tony’s stomach. He pushes down the churning in his stomach to concentrate on the task at hand.

“Your gears are stripped pretty bad. I’ll do what I can, but even best-case you’ll have to take it really easy until I can get your new arm finished. Everything in here was on it’s last leg about… ten years ago.”

“It’s okay, Tony. Whatever you have to do.”

That’s a lot of trust. Tony has to swallow back a lump in his throat. “It’s probably going to hurt.”

“Okay,” says James, and tips his head back and shuts his eyes. It’s a mirror of the first time he came to the lab, except this time his face is calm, relaxed.

Tony swallows again and gets to work.

It’s slow work, picking out the problem gears, untangling and smoothing twisted wires, trying to get the arm back to some semblance of functional. And even though James barely moves for most of it, Tony knows he’s in a lot more pain than he’s letting on. When Tony finally finishes, pieces the last of the casing back together, and sets his screwdriver down, it’s nice to watch the tension bleed its way out of James’ shoulders.

“You done, doll?” James asks, a little hoarse.

“Yeah,” says Tony, a little annoyed about how one simple word out of James’ mouth can make his chest seize up like that. “Any better?”

“A lot better,” James says, and smiles. Tender, genuine. He reaches out and strokes the metal hand gently down Tony’s cheek, then slips it around to rest heavy against the back of Tony’s neck.

For a second, Tony shivers at the cold metallic touch, but he forces it down. James frowns and lightens the touch some.

“I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Tony says, mouth all dry and heart pounding in his chest. The way James is looking at him… it’s that look he used to give Steve, when he was first making his home in the tower. That look like he’s been regifted a piece of his own soul.

James smiles, and leans forward a bit, and Tony’s breath hitches. He’s so close, blue eyes as soft and warm as the splotches of gold that frame his face, and Tony has never felt this before, this deep and desperate longing pounding its way through his chest.

“James,” he pleads. “Jamie.” Tony can’t put into words what he feels, what he needs. He’s gone so long pushing everything down for James’ sake, for Steve’s, and now he’s here with James’ face inches from his and he doesn’t think he’ll survive if he has to push anything else away.

But James just gives Tony a kind, knowing smile, and closes the last little gap between them.

He presses his lips to Tony’s, soft and gentle and yet full of the same desperate longing, and fireworks of bright blue and gold flash their way through Tony’s vision, enveloping the hurt and the pain and longing and replacing it with a type of warmth he’d never thought possible. 

He reaches out and tangles his hands in James’ shirt, and James deepens the kiss and wraps his arms around Tony’s waist. And it might be the best thing Tony’s ever felt.

* * *

It’s nearly the end of February, during a rare period when James is off training or sparring or showering instead of kissing Tony into oblivion on the couch in the lab. Tony is working on the arm, as he does in all his not-kissing-James time; he’s determined to have it done by March 10th, even though James has no idea Tony knows when his birthday is. 

“Sir,” says JARVIS abruptly, “Captain Rogers is—”

The door to the lab slides open before JARVIS can get out the word ‘incoming,’ and then Tony’s heart is stuttering hard and fast in his chest, because Steve is standing  _ right there _ , in the battered, barely recognizable remains of the suit Tony had sent him home in.

“Tony,” he says, like Tony’s name is a glass of water and Steve’s a man dying of thirst.

Tony sends his wheeled stool flying across the lab under the force he stands with. His legs are shaking, barely able to hold his own weight, and his breath catches with the sudden red-rush of fury that overtakes him.

“Fuck you, Rogers.” Tony nearly chokes on the words, thick and angry on his tongue. “ _ Fuck _ you, how dare you? Get out.”

“Tony,” Steve says again, this time a little desperate, a little pleading.

“No,” Tony says, trembling all over, his hands clenched in fists at his sides. “No, I don’t want to hear it. You fucking disappeared, none of us even knew if you were fucking alive, James has been worried sick—”

“Weber’s dead.”

Tony grabs a wrench and heaves it at Steve. It bounces off the suit with a useless ping and clatters to the floor at Steve’s feet. Then they both just stand there, Steve looking wrecked and defeated, Tony nearly gasping for breath. 

“Fuck you,” Tony says. “You think that makes this better? I didn’t need you to go running off looking for him, I needed you here. With me.”

And now Tony’s tearing up. Great. Just great.

“I’m sorry. Tony, I’m sorry.” And to Steve’s credit, he does look sorry. “I couldn’t—I couldn’t just sit there, not when I knew he was still out there—the doctors promised me you were going to be okay, and I knew Bucky would look after you when you woke up—”

“So you decided to disappear for almost two fucking months? Jesus, Rogers, you stupid fucking idiot, for all we knew you decided to crash another motherfucking plane into the motherfucking Atlantic—”

“I know. I know, Tony. I’m sorry.”

Steve takes a step forward, and Tony scrabbles back, pointing a finger threateningly at him. “Don’t come near me, don’t you dare take another step—”

Steve doesn’t listen, because he’s fucking stupid, and takes another step forward, giving Tony the perfect chance to try out his newly-implanted sensors. He snaps his right hand up and shakes it, and the arm of the suit Steve’s wearing flies home, locking around Tony’s arm. Before he can even process what he’s doing, Tony has fired up the blaster and pointed it right at Steve’s chest.

“I mean it, Rogers. Not another fucking step.”

Steve freezes, hands raised in compliance, and—horror of horrors—tears start to well in his eyes. Tony grits his teeth and fights down tears of his own, but keeps the blaster steady. 

“Do you have any idea,” Tony forces out, “what you have done to me. Any fucking clue?”

“I should have told you where I was, I should have kept in contact—” Steve’s voice is shaking.

“I don’t just mean the last two months. I mean in general. I mean the fucking  _ colors _ , Rogers.”

Steve drops his hands, all the fight bled out of him at once. Now he just looks broken, and resigned. “I didn’t know how to tell you, at first. I knew it was you before I even met you—”

“How the fuck could you know that? I didn’t find out until you got hurt on the helicarrier—”

“Tony.” Steve’s voice goes impossibly soft. “Who else has a perfect, circular wound in the middle of their sternum?”

Tony reels back, and almost drops the blaster to his side.

The fucking arc reactor. And he’d thought he’d been so careful.

“Fury gave me files on everyone before I boarded the helicarrier. As soon as I read them, I knew it had to be you. And you fucking hated me at first.”

“You hated  _ me _ , Rogers.”

“That’s not true, Tony.” Rogers has no right to look so calm, even as tears are leaking down his face. “I hated that you were standing right in front of me with your fucking colors all over my chest, when your father was one of my best friends in the world and I didn’t even get to say goodbye to him.”

“You keep my fucking father out of your mouth, Rogers. He fucked me up worse than you did.”

“I didn’t know that.” Steve’s still so calm, and Tony hates him for it. His own body is trembling head to toe, so hard he can barely even hold the blaster steady.

“So, then what?” he spits, and Steve sighs.

“I… before I told you, I needed to talk to Peggy. I knew she’d moved on, I knew she’d found another soulmate, that she’d been happy, but I needed to see for myself. I’d already lost Bucky, and I… I had to convince my brain that I’d lost her too. And then she was so much worse off than I thought, and she was all alone, and I couldn’t just leave her there. And… and then I found Bucky.”

Tony clenches his teeth and struggles to keep holding the weight of the blaster upright, without the rest of the suit to support its weight. 

“Tony, honestly, I thought your colors would fade once I got his back. I really did.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“Of course not.” Steve takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Of course not, I just… I didn’t want to hurt you. But then they didn’t fade. And then Bucky got them too. He wanted to reach out almost immediately. Especially after you repaired his arm. But I just… I was scared, Tony. You were avoiding me at every turn, you stopped coming to dinners, and I… I thought you didn’t want us.”

“You two were so happy.” Tony’s words come out bitter and hard, dropping like stones between them. “You were perfectly happy without me. Why would I interfere?”

“Tony—” Steve makes like he’s going to move forward again, and looks at the blaster, and stills. “I’m sorry. We should have reached out. We were wrong, and we hurt you, and I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

“You left me, Steve. You fucking left me half-dead in the hospital and we didn’t hear from you for almost two fucking months. I didn’t know if you were okay or if you were  _ bleeding out in a warehouse somewhere _ and you didn’t stop to think for a second—”

“I know. I know. I just.” Steve rakes his hand through his hair, looking like he’s aged decades in the span of a few seconds. “The first time I saw for sure that you… had ours… you were being ripped out from under me. And then for the next seven weeks I got a front-row seat to a live feed of you being torn to shreds. Because of me and Bucky. And I shouldn’t have left. I know I shouldn’t have. I just wanted to make sure none of them could ever get their hands on you again.”

Steve droops a little, and looks Tony dead in the eye, a quiet resignation written across his face. 

“If you want to blast me, go ahead. I deserve it. I’m so sorry, baby.”

It’s the  _ baby  _ that breaks him, shatters him into so many pieces he’s not sure he’ll ever be whole again. In the split-second rush of anger and hurt and desperation and relief that follows, Tony pulls the blaster slightly to the left and fires. The beam of light sails over Steve’s shoulder, shattering through the opaque glass wall behind him. Steve doesn’t even flinch.

The second after that, Tony just crumples. He collapses to his knees on the floor, letting the blaster clatter off his arm to the wayside, and wraps his arms around his waist and  _ screams _ .

He screams until his voice shatters like the rest of him, and then he just stays curled there, sobbing.

“Tony?”

It’s too much, Steve, it’s all so much.

“Tony, I’m coming over there. Shake your head if you want me to stop.”

Tony doesn’t even know what he wants anymore.

There’s the sound of the rest of the suit powering down and falling away. Steve comes over, and stoops, and collects every last bit of Tony’s shattered self off the floor. He moves them over to the couch and sits, settling Tony in his lap, holding him close as he shakes and shudders and wails.

“Shh, baby. I know. I know, I’m sorry.”

“I thought—I thought if you—saw—you’d be angry.”

“Tony.” Steve’s arms shudder around him. He strokes one hand feather-light down Tony’s left arm, tracing over the scars there, over the still-visible ribbons of arc-reactor blue. “Oh, Tony. The only thing I’m angry about is me. Waiting until I’d nearly lost you to realize I could have you.”

Gentleness can hurt too, sometimes. But this is a good hurt.

Steve takes Tony’s left hand in his own, the same shade of blue, and presses his lips to Tony’s darker-blue-stained knuckles. This close, Tony can see the remnants of his burns, bright gold amidst the dried streaks of sweat and grime on Steve’s face. 

“I won’t leave you again, okay? I’m gonna stay right here with you.”

Tony cries and cries until there’s nothing left in him.

When James arrives later, bursting inside in a panic after seeing the remains of the blaster’s shot, he finds them still on the couch. Steve is asleep, head lolled back against the arm of the couch, one arm wrapped around Tony’s shoulders and the other brushing the floor. James slows as Tony raises his head and blinks sleepily up at him, and smiles.

“I’m going to assume you’ve already given him the dressing down he deserves?” James asks in a hushed whisper, coming to a stop next to the couch and dropping to his knees in front of Tony.

“He could stand for another one, but I’ll let you do the honors.”

James grins and swoops in to kiss Tony’s forehead. It takes Tony a moment to register the new emotion flowing through him, but when he recognizes it, his whole chest almost bursts. 

It’s contentment.

* * *

Steve makes good on his word. During the day, either he or James are always at Tony’s side. At night, they lie on either side of him, pressing soft, worshipful kisses along the scars left by the arc reactor, by Weber’s knife.

When he wakes screaming, which is often, they’re there to hold him until the red bleeds all the way out of the corners of his vision.

Tony finishes the arm on March 9th. When James sees it for the first time, his whole face crumples. Tony and Steve have to pick him up from the floor and maneuver him to the couch, where he snots all over Tony’s good cushion.

It’s taken a lot of shivery, panicked moments; a lot of flashing back; a whole lot of Steve holding him close and whispering calming words into his hair; but Tony has managed to study his scars well enough to place gold inlays in the arm, shining warm and bright against the dark grey-black of James’ new arm. 

“It’s perfect,” James says, as soon as he can speak. “It’s perfect, doll.”

It looks even better when it’s attached. James moves it slowly, staring at it with something akin to reverence. Then he swoops in and captures Tony in a slow, melting kiss.

“Am I interrupting a moment?”

Tony pushes James backward and turns his head; Natasha’s smirking at them from the doorway.

“Jesus, Nat,” James chuckles out, and swipes his right hand under his nose. “No, of course not.”

She and Steve are both laughing at them now. Rude.

“I just wanted to tell you dinner is nearly ready,” Natasha says. “Bruce made Indian food, it smells amazing. You three lovebirds coming up?”

Steve turns to Tony, a smile spread wide across his face. “You coming with us, baby?”

“Yeah,” Tony says. The emotion spreading through his chest can only be described as red, but a good one; all warmth and safety, like a fire blazing steadily on a hearth. 

James wraps his new metal arm around Tony’s waist, and Steve mimics him on the other side.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there if you will.”

  
  
  
  


_ f.i.n. _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no beta readers we die like men
> 
> seriously, if you see any mistakes please let me know so i can fix them. come visit me on tumblr @sincereleo and bug me until i start working on switch fic again.


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